


Crazy

by jericho



Category: Backstreet Boys
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jericho/pseuds/jericho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My summary from 2000: "Howie thinks he's losing his mind, Nick thinks he's losing his friend and they all think they're losing their celebrity status. This story makes readily apparent my crush on the little salsa god. I also put him on drugs, for reasons even I don't understand."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crazy

Howie dreamed that he was walking down the beach, except the sky was dark and the water looked like oil. It washed up around his feet and stained his soles black, and when he tried to lift his feet away, it clung to his skin like thick blood. 

He woke up laughing. Laughing for no reason, really. Just because it felt good on his face. It felt good to gulp back air and feel his stomach tighten and flex. 

He climbed out of bed. Showered and shaved. Then put on his favorite shirt, the V-necked one with the white stripes on the sleeves that he'd bought at The Gap on his last vacation. The group went and sat in the MTV studios, answering questions from fans, looking at the faces pressed against the glass like desperate fish in a bowl of steadily heating water. One day the water would boil and they would all be dead, lifeless on the scalding streets, and in the long run, it didn't matter to the world at large who lived or who died. 

He went into the restroom and cried into a wad of toilet paper, letting all of the frustration and anxiety flow, sitting on the counter next to the urinals listening to his sobs echo through the sterile white room. And for the first time it occurred to him that he might be losing his mind. 

How would he know? Were minds equipped with a mental instability alarm that went off when people got too weird? Or would he descend into madness being none the wiser, wondering where he was going and why he was being taken there? Would he even be wondering about this stuff if he was losing his mind? 

The door opened and Nick strode in, his expression curious with just a tinge of impatience. He hugged Howie automatically, like it was routine, patting Howie's back so his hands made little slapping noises against the leather. 

"S'okay," Nick said. "Come on. Let's go." Like it was that easy. 

"I can't," Howie told the floor. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to do anything. 

Nick sighed deeply - a long, agitated exhale that implied that he didn't have time for this shit. "What's the matter?" 

"Everything." Howie knew he sounded impossible. But he couldn't stand up. Couldn't walk out there. It was almost like he'd forgotten how to move his legs. He couldn't be filmed like this. He couldn't smile and look chipper like everything was all right. There was only so much a mind and body could take, and he'd surpassed that about six months ago. 

Nick tapped his foot, looked around with an annoyed expression on his face. Howie could tell that Nick didn't really know what to say or do. For once, he might have to pass this one on to someone else. 

"What do you need?" Nick finally asked. 

"I need to go home." 

"Okay. Look." Nick walked over and rested his hands on Howie's knees, ducking his head to try to look in Howie's eyes. Howie looked up slowly. "All we have to do is sign a few autographs. Twenty minutes. All we have to do is get past that one little barrier, do that one thing, and we can leave." 

Howie thought about it. One task to accomplish between here and there. One task he'd done a hundred times. He slid off the counter and checked himself in the mirror, feeling a little ridiculous. He followed Nick outside and the Backstreet Boys signed autographs. Smiled. Posed for pictures. And all Howie saw was fish. 

After a few autographs, they made it to point B. They hopped in the limo and the fans pounded themselves against the car. Howie half expected to hear their bodies crunch against the metal sides of the vehicle. "I wish they'd just stop," he said quietly. "They're going to get hurt." He looked down at his lap, focusing on his hands, picking hard at the skin around his nails until the spots he'd been picking at for a month opened and bled again. Nick sat quietly next to him, slumping down awkwardly. Finally Nick reached over and covered Howie's small hands with his large one. "Stop it," he whispered. 

AJ, who had been making small talk with Kevin, looked over. "Everybody okay?" The car was still making its way through the sea of people. 

"Yeah," Nick said brightly. 

*** 

Howie laid on his bed, channel surfing. He passed a TBS movie "for guys who like movies," which was Terminator 2. He settled briefly on the weather channel, then realized it was pointless because he couldn't remember where they were headed next. Finally he settled on MTV. It was an interview with some punk band whose single had just cracked the top 40. 

He rolled over onto his side, running his fingertips lightly across the bedspread. They were from Wisconsin. They'd started out in the drummer's garage. The one with platinum blond streaks, who actually wasn't bad looking, opened his mouth for the first time in the interview. 

"We're not the Backstreet Boys, man," the guy said. "They're at, like, 14 minutes and counting." 

It felt like a piano had dropped on his heart. Howie knew he should change the channel. But he couldn't. There were no more Backstreet Boys references, but he laid there immobile, staring at the television, unable to make his hand grab the remote control. 

The door swung open and Nick strode in, his hair wet and messy from a recent shower. "Hey," Nick said, climbing over Howie's legs and sitting on the other side of the bed. He watched the punk band for about five seconds and tapped Howie's leg. "Gimme the remote." 

Howie didn't move, but Nick barely noticed. He just reached over Howie and grabbed the remote himself, flipping the channels briefly and stopping it on Terminator 2. 

Nick was 15 when he started the habit of coming into Howie's room. They played video games or watched the pay-per-view movies or talked about girls and bands and whatever else Nick wanted to talk about. After the first couple of weeks, Howie brought it up to Kevin, who just shrugged and said "Maybe he feels comfortable around you." And Nick had done it ever since. 

After a couple of years of frequent visiting, they fooled around a little. It was nothing heavy; just kissing and groping and, at last, the occasional blow job. Howie always let Nick make the first move, and after a few months Nick stopped making it, and it hadn't happened since. But Nick still hung out in his room. 

Howie laid there for a few minutes, listening to the distant sounds of Terminator 2 - gun shots, deep voices, women's screams. Nick tapped his leg again. "You still there, D?" 

"It's almost over." 

Nick waved the remote at the TV. "No, it's not. Arnold hasn't even met up with the bad guy yet." 

"I mean this," Howie said. "Us. The touring. The group." 

Nick looked at the screen, seemingly debating between watching the movie and addressing the issue. Then he hit the mute button. "Why are you talking like this all the sudden? You never talk like this." 

"I don't know," Howie said truthfully. 

"Why do you think that?" Howie couldn't tell if Nick's voice was impatient or just focused. 

"I just feel it," Howie said. He ran his fingers across the bedspread again. He felt Nick's blue eyes fixed on him, examining him. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes. 

Nick rocked a little. Scratched his head. "Stop it." 

"I can't help...." 

"Stop it," he repeated, this time more forceful. "You're not going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere. If something happens we'll deal with it." Nick looked at the TV, then back at Howie. "You're not on drugs, are you?" 

"No!" 

"Good," Nick said. "Because if you're using again, I'll fucking kill you." 

Nick hit the volume and Terminator 2 leapt into action. Howie let his head drop on the pillow, watching Nick's hand drop the remote between them, Nick's finger tapping it once before he rested his hand on his leg. Nick's fingernails were always clean. His hands were flawless. Just like the rest of him. Howie wanted to reach out and grab Nick's hand, pull Nick down so Howie could just lay his head on Nick's chest and feel the warmth of another person, hear the beating heart and the pumping veins and the sounds of breathing and life. But Nick wouldn't understand. Although sometimes Nick was more astute than he realized, because Howie wished for the first time in two years that he was high. 

*** 

The next night's show went pretty well, although by the time they reached the encore Howie's limbs felt like lead. Nick and AJ invited him to go out clubbing, but he could barely keep his eyes open, so he found himself in the car between Kevin and Brian. Brian was nearly asleep, jiggling a little every time the car turned a corner. Kevin got on his cell phone and called Kristin. 

Howie trudged slowly up to his room, riding in the elevator with a rich woman in a fur coat and wondering how many things had to die to make her wardrobe. Kevin and Brian went to their rooms with nothing more than a "good night" and Howie wondered if it was in their blood to turn domestic overnight. Maybe Brian and Kevin were partially responsible for killing it. They were the ones who were so eager to make it look like the Backstreet Boys had matured. They got married and alienated some of the hardcore fans. But when they walked to their rooms, eyes already half closed, they didn't even seem to be thinking about it. 

Howie tossed and turned in his bed. He lay on his back and twisted a lock of his hair around his finger, over and over, until he twisted so hard that a few strands came out. He wondered how long it would take to pull it all out. Finally he rolled on his side and watched the alarm clock, starting to panic because it was getting late, and the panic keeping him awake. By the time he slept the numbers had blurred to green blobs. 

He dreamed that he was underwater, under a giant yacht. He was scrambling to swim to the surface but he just stayed in place, treading water but beneath the surface, watching the hulking white boat pass by slowly. He knew he was dying, running out of breath before anyone could figure out that he was down there, and he felt an odd combination of panic and calm. 

He woke up quickly and kicked somebody's leg. He blinked a little at the gray room, which had a faint hint of golden light from the rising sun on the other side of the curtains. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, and once he pried them open he found Nick, still fully clothed, sleeping soundly. Nick's hair was a mess, the combination of gel and bedhead making it lay matted to his head in some spots and stick out in others. He lay on his back, one hand curled on his stomach, his head at what looked like an awkward angle. 

Howie sighed. He could still smell the bar on Nick - cigarette smoke, stale booze, the now-subtle whiff of Nick's favorite cologne. Nick breathed steadily, chest rising and falling, every limb heavy and still. A single blond hair clung to Nick's eyelash and Howie reached out slowly, holding his breath as he picked it off. 

Nick's features had rounded out a little since he was a teenager. His lips were fuller and a perfect shade of pink. His eyelashes were long and dark blond, his nose prominent and the focal point of the rest of his features. Howie wished he could reach out and run a delicate fingertip down the bridge of Nick's nose, across that full bottom lip. It was strange to think that he used to kiss those lips, although at the time he hadn't really appreciated it the way he should have. And if the Backstreet Boys ended, so would his chance to see those lips every day. 

He crawled out of bed as quietly as possible, trying not to move the mattress and disturb Nick. He showered methodically and then examined himself in the mirror as he shaved. Every day there seemed to be a new subtle wrinkle, a new layer of shadow under his eyes. He tied his hair back and went back into the room. Nick opened one eye. 

Howie ignored him, stuffing his old clothes in his suitcase, thinking that if he didn't say anything Nick would go back to sleep. 

"I couldn't find my card," Nick said sleepily. "I could only find yours." 

"Is it in your jacket?" Howie asked. 

"I checked there." 

"Yeah, but you were probably drunk." Howie found Nick's leather jacket on the floor by the chair and picked it up, sticking his hand in the right pocket and finding Nick's key card amongst gum wrappers and wadded-up phone numbers. He held it up and Nick smiled. 

"Keep sleeping," Howie said. "But we have to leave in about an hour." 

"I'm up," Nick said, closing his eyes again. 

Howie crept over to the door quietly, opening it and finding a newspaper on the floor in front of it. He picked it up and wandered over to the desk, pulling out the chair without squeaking it and flipping to the paper's entertainment section. There was a picture of Nick during "Shape of My Heart," singing without a hint of sarcasm in his eyes. Underneath was a review. "Fans didn't pay that much money to hear the Boys sing ballads for 90 minutes. The quintessential boy band seems to be getting soft in its old age." 

Howie dropped the paper on the floor, kicking it away with his foot. He slumped down in his chair, glaring at it a few feet away, wishing he could burn it or shred it or make it disappear. Nick's heavy breathing hitched for a second, suspended in midair, and Howie glanced over wildly. Then Nick's breathing returned to normal and Howie sighed. 

*** 

In the next town, Howie sat on his bed strumming his guitar, not really playing any song in particular, just seeing what chords he could come up with. Nick lay next to him reading a magazine, casually flipping the pages like he didn't even notice the sound. 

Howie stopped strumming and looked down at Nick. "I'm not afraid of losing you." 

Nick looked up slowly, raising his eyebrows, chewing his gum thoughtfully like he wasn't sure what to do. 

"I'm not afraid of losing any of you. Any of this," Howie said. "I'm not even afraid of dying." 

Nick kept chewing his gum and looked down at his magazine again. "Neither am I," he said evenly. 

Howie went back to strumming, trying to strike some minor chords, something that sounded like a cross between Enya and the Funeral March of the Marionettes. Nick spoke up and broke Howie's concentration. 

"You should go see Chris sometime," Nick said. 

"Kirkpatrick? From *NSYNC?" 

"Yeah," Nick said, still focused on the magazine. "You're friends with him, right?" 

"I guess." Howie bent over his guitar again, pressing down so hard on the strings that his fingertips ached. 

"Are you fucking someone?" Nick asked. 

"Huh?" Howie furrowed his brow. "No. Why do you ask that?" 

Nick shrugged. "Just wondering." 

Howie went back to playing. After a few seconds, everything stopped making sense. He forgot where his fingers went, like something had landed on him and just sucked out his memory. The chords came out nonsensical, like his fingers forgot how to work. He set the guitar down with a clang and laid back on the bed, covering his eyes with his forearm, not moving until Nick got up and left. 

*** 

Freebase. 

Howie even loved the word. It had been about two years since he'd even thought about that word, thought about how what that word represented had melted away some of his muscles, made tiny threads of his mind unravel, had made his life hell for about six months until his management intervened and he realized that he'd been put on this Earth for a purpose. Now he sat spread-legged on the bed in his hotel room and listened to the crisp sound of the lighter igniting, the flame touching glass, his lungs leaping into action as he inhaled as deeply as he possibly could. 

Oh my God. 

It was ecstasy. Pure fucking bliss. His mind soared, swooned, whipped around in little circles, his body floating, like 50 orgasms compressed into one. He blinked slowly, shedding a single, silent tear, and flopped back onto his bed. 

He was still lying there when Nick came in. It could have been 20 minutes later or 20 hours later. He heard the door open and rolled his head sideways, seeing Nick standing there, feet planted firmly, the light of the hallway behind him getting slimmer and disappearing when the door swung shut. Everything happened at an awkward angle, with dream-like physics, nothing as far away as it looked. 

Howie waved his arm in the air, wanting to say something but unable to find the words. Then Nick charged toward him like a big, blond monster, getting from the door to the bed in a split second, faster than Superman. Howie's breath caught in his throat, his arm being yanked back as Nick leapt on top of him and straddled him. 

"What the fuck did you do?" Nick shouted, inches away from Howie's face. "What the fuck did you do?" 

"Nothing," Howie mumbled. 

"What the fuck did you...." Nick's face contorted, his head dropping to rest on Howie's chest, and Howie realized that Nick was crying. Crying. The last time Nick had cried in front of anyone was when he was 16 and his grandmother died. Nick snapped. Nick kept a poker face. Nick got so pissed off that he took a swing at whoever was nearby. But he never, ever cried. Now he was on top of Howie, his body jerking from the sobs, sounding like a wounded animal. 

"Tell me you love me," Howie said, knowing the sentence probably sounded like one long word. 

Nick's head snapped back and he stared at Howie. Glared at him with wet red eyes. "No." 

Nick rolled off him and landed firmly on his feet, walking across the room and slamming the door behind him when he left. 

*** 

For the entire six-hour drive to the next state, Nick refused to speak to him. Howie was still sluggish, his brain moving from overdrive into slow motion. He stepped on the bus with his sunglasses securely in place. He stopped at Nick's bunk briefly, looking down at him. Nick didn't even look up from his magazine when he said, "Fuck you." 

"Nick, I..." 

"Fuck you!" He said it loud enough that the other three craned to look down the hall. Howie scratched his head, turned away self consciously, looked away when Nick yanked his curtain closed. 

It took every ounce of Howie's willpower to give away the drugs he had left. He gave them to one of the roadies, wrapped in a plastic bag. He walked by and said, "Here. A present." And then he kept walking, fighting the urge to turn around and look. Because if he turned around and looked, he'd run back. 

Strength, he thought. 

That day there was no Nick knocking on his door. No Nick hogging the remote control. Howie went to Nick's room and tapped on the door gently, waiting a full 30 seconds before tapping again. Maybe Nick had a girl in there. Maybe Nick was in another one of his coma-like sleeps. Finally the door swung open and Nick glared at him. 

"What?" Nick snapped. 

"Can I come in?" 

"No." 

Howie put out his arm to stop the door from closing all the way. Nick tried to push it shut on one side, Howie fighting to keep it open on the other, until they seemed to lose their energy and called a stalemate. The door was open a crack. Howie could hear Nick breathing on the other side. Howie rested his forehead against the cool wood and closed his eyes. "Nick, I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not going to do it again. I promise." 

The door swung open suddenly. "You promised last time that you weren't going to do it again." Nick pushed the door toward Howie hard, but then he let go of it and stormed back into his room. Howie stepped in timidly, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible. 

Nick spun around and shoved his finger in Howie's face. "What am I going to do if you lose it, huh? You're the only one I count on to not lose it, and you've lost it." 

"I'm sorry," Howie said evenly. 

"Well, sorry isn't good enough," Nick replied angrily. "I _need_ you here. You know?" 

"I know." Howie looked at the floor. 

"I'm sick to fucking death of this." Nick kicked his half-empty duffel bag and it fluttered into the air and landed near the night table. Then he strutted over and stood right in front of Howie, face to face. "Are you going nuts? Is that it? Are you really going nuts?" 

Howie bit his lip. It wasn't an easy question. Maybe. Probably. Definitely not. "I don't know." 

"Because I can find someone else to be friends with," Nick said. "I can find someone like _that_." He snapped his fingers. 

"I know." 

Howie focused on the floor. On the plush blood-red carpet that he had in his hotel room, too. When he looked back up the anger had drained from Nick's eyes and been replaced by an emotion that was too tough to describe. 

"I'm sorry," Nick said weakly. "I didn't mean that." And then Nick hugged him, pulling Howie's face into his strong chest, wrapping his big arms around Howie's slender shoulders. Howie couldn't remember the last time Nick had hugged him. 

"I'm sorry," Nick mumbled against the top of Howie's head. 

"Me too," Howie said against Nick's chest. And he realized, for the first time, that he wanted Nick to kiss him. He wanted _anyone_ to kiss him. He just wanted to be kissed. Held. Human contact. Any sign of life. 

*** 

And the Backstreet Boys won. They beat out Alabama and, thank the Lord, *NSYNC. There was no way they thought they'd win. Kevin couldn't stop talking about how their time on the charts was up, and AJ kept saying "Backstreet's back," and Howie kept pointing out that they hadn't gone anywhere. And then they won Best Pop/Rock Group. The best in America, and maybe even the world. 

They walked up to the stage, all five of them, in their new clothes and their made-up faces and their shiny smiles. Kevin thanked the fans for keeping their careers going after all these years. AJ said "Backstreet's back." Howie realized he was grinning like a fool, up there in front of everyone, standing there tall and proud next to his best friends. Because they hadn't gone anywhere. They were just getting started. And slowly, jagged piece by jagged piece, like a wound scabbing over, the world was coming alive again. 

  



End file.
